


Wasted On Me

by Sailing_Through_the_Stars



Category: League of Legends
Genre: First Time, M/M, POV Second Person, PWP, because they're drunk, but they definitely want it, dub-con, hint: Graves doesn't, possible requited feelings, who knows how TF really feels about anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 16:26:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5055670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sailing_Through_the_Stars/pseuds/Sailing_Through_the_Stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Put enough liquor in him, and Twisted Fate’s polished image would rapidly deteriorate into something akin to a broke and desperate barmaid but he’s never been this blunt and goddamn do you want it, you want it so bad you can barely see straight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wasted On Me

You’ve had too much to drink. You don’t like to admit it but when the money’s swindled and the bartender keeps fluttering her pretty dark eyes even you, Malcolm Graves, have a hard time saying no. The room is hazy with cigar smoke, not all of it yours, but enough that coupled with the general dimness of the room and the alcohol in your belly you’re having a pretty damn hard time seeing much. The girl is trying to get your attention, no doubt to fill your glass again, so you motion to it; preferring to scan the room with furrowed brows for your partner. Twisted Fate had disappeared a while ago, no doubt drawn to one of the tables on the edges of the room.

Damn fool couldn’t keep his hands off the cards for more than a few hours, even when tonight’s winnings were more than enough to keep the two of you comfortable for months. You’re glad your cut was nice and safe in your own pockets where you could spend it on quality booze instead of risking it at the tables. Your glass is full again, and you slam it back like the rest.

“You damn cheat!”

The shout and thump of a fist on wood draws your eyes (and most in the bar) to a corner table and somehow you aren’t the least bit surprised when you catch sight of the ridiculous hat. Twisted Fate is stretched out, balancing on the back legs of his chair; the picture of easy confidence. The other two men at the table stand up, glaring at Fate, and so you roll your eyes and stand, too. You’d only just got here; It was too early for this shit to be starting. You’re halfway to the table when Twisted Fate stands and pockets the serpents breezily. “Pleasure doing buisness with you, gentlemen,” he says with a tip of his hat, and when he catches your eye he grins.

 _Shit_. He’s swaying, and if you peek around him you can see empty bottles on the table he vacated--he’d already started drinking, and he’d had more than a little by the looks of it. He’s walking towards you, the usual loping gait punctuated by half-stumbles, and you’re reminded of a cat. A drunk cat with long thin legs and holy hell was that an image for your fuzzy brain to conjure up. _Stop staring at his legs_.

You barely manage to catch Twisted Fate by the shoulders before the smaller man can fall into you. “Graves,” he says, drawing out the last letter just a little too long. “How’re y’ doin’ partner?”

He’s further along than you had hoped.

“You’re drunk,” you deadpan, try not to stare when Fate’s tongue darts out to wet his lips as they curl into a languid smile. “Aw, c’mon,” he drawls, low in his throat, “I’m just celebrating. No need to get all uppity about it.” Twisted Fate sways in place and it takes all of your wavering self-control not to reach out and catch him by the hips, so you ball your hands into fists instead, level your sternest glare at the other man but Fate’s smirk doesn’t waver. “Besides;” He continues in a voice like velvet, “you’re drunk, too.”

Fate’s eyes flick downwards, deliberate and slow enough that you have no choice but to notice the way they linger on your lips. The room is suddenly stifling.

 

Well. Time to nip this impending shitstorm in the bud.

 

You reach out and take Fate’s arm more than a little roughly, tearing your eyes away as you turn towards the stairway that led to the rooms above the bar. “Time for bed,” you mutter gruffly and Fate blessedly doesn’t argue as you hold up two fingers at the girl behind the counter--she’ll put it on your tab. The noise dissipates gradually as you climb until it’s only a murmur. You’re barely into the hallway, concealed from view of the other patrons, when Twisted Fate shifts his weight and sends you both both crashing into the wall. Your grip loosens and suddenly you’re back where this started; Fate far too close for comfort.

“Easy, kid.” you say, holding him at arm’s length “You gotta sleep this off before you do something you regret.”

Fate stares from beneath hooded eyes and you can feel the heat in his gaze slither down to settle deep in your abdomen. Dammit, this wasn’t good. It wasn’t as if you’d never thought about it. Hell, anyone who’d ever laid eyes on your partner had probably thought about it. Twisted Fate was the definition of lithe elegance, with just enough hard angles so you didn’t forget he was very much a man. You caught yourself staring just as often as you caught others--Fate caught you more times than you cared to admit; just arched an eyebrow and smirked like he _knew_ how often you got off on the thought of his hands gripping your sheets.

Twisted Fate inches forward, downcast eyes making him appear almost coy, and you know you shouldn’t let him, should push him away and into his room because this is a disaster waiting to happen but you can’t help yourself. Long fingers splay out over your chest and Fate worries his bottom lip between his teeth (you don’t like what that does to you) but his eyes are confident.

“Who says I’ll regret it?”

Twisted Fate had been this drunk before, hell he’d flirted before, but never this brazenly and you always refused him. You swallow hard around the implication in his words, try to say something, anything to deflect the sudden tension but you’re drawing nothing but blanks; it’s too damn hot and Fate is getting closer by the second--and then it’s too late for words because he’s less than a breath away, daring you to close the gap. There’s a beat; shaky exhales mixing in the space between you, making you dizzy and then--“Aw, fuck it.”

You surge forward, wrap an arm around his waist and pull him flush. Lips collide roughly and when Twisted Fate gasps into your mouth you swallow it greedily, his fingers grasping your shirt so hard it hurts. The kiss is hard, hungry. He tastes like whiskey and liquid sin and everything you’ve ever wanted warm and real under your hands. You groan when he catches your lip between his teeth as he pulls away, gasping for air, before claiming your mouth again.

His hands slide from your chest down to the small of your back and you feel yourself growing hard at the heady weight of Twisted Fate’s body pressed against yours. You break the kiss, let your head fall back against the wall at the sudden wave of dizziness that follows the rerouting of blood and lips immediately attack your neck, mark a path up your jawline until Fate’s breath is ghosting nearly too hot along the shell of your ear. Slowly, torturously he rolls his hips forward and whispers “ _Fuck me._ ”

You freeze, mouth suddenly drier than the Shurima desert. Shit. It’s never gotten to this point--you’re in unfamiliar and all-too-tempting waters. Put enough liquor in him, and Twisted Fate’s polished image would rapidly deteriorate into something akin to a broke and desperate barmaid but he’s never been this blunt and _goddamn_ do you want to, you want it so bad you can barely see straight. Beneath him, your knees threaten to give out, your brain nothing but white noise, half-convinced you’d misheard--this was a mistake and you’re already in too deep. You grab Twisted Fate by the shoulders and push him back, suddenly angry.

“Cut it out, Fate.” you growl, voice husky with enough poorly-masked want to surprise yourself. “We both know it’s the booze talkin',”

You’re trying desperately to ignore the obvious tent in Twisted Fate’s perfectly tailored suit pants (he keeps telling you you need to be more of a gentleman; might as well start now) but Fate however is not so reserved; swollen lips parted and a hungry look in his eyes as they rake over your body unabashed.

“C’mon,” you start, and a flush begins to climb up your neck. You step forward, move to take the other man’s arm but Fate shakes it off and shoves you hard against the wall with narrowed eyes. You struggle together; pushing and clawing at shirtsleeves and collars and Fate presses his forehead into yours, hat askew. He’s panting.

 

“ _Please, Malcolm._ ”

 

Gods, that was a low blow. The sound of your name on breathless lips shatter what’s left of your self-control and you snap. Snarling, you flip Twisted Fate to face the wall, pin one wrist, your other hand digging into Fate’s hip and his left hand reaches up to slide behind your neck. He gasps, presses back against you, and when you snap your own hips forward sharply in answer the sound that falls from his lips is _filthy_.

You think you might pass out.

He smells like leather and spice and something vaguely sweet you can’t quite put your finger on. If the scent of Twisted Fate’s ridiculously expensive cologne made you dizzy from more appropriate distances it was intoxicating now; your face buried in his hair. He rocks his hips back, whines, and it’s _too damn much_.

“Stop,”

It’s a strangled word, whispered into the nape of his neck; begging instead of telling because you’re rocketing far too fast towards the invisible line between friends and something else and you aren’t sure you’ll be able to make yourself uncross it once Twisted Fate finally comes to his senses. He turns against you and you let him go (but you don’t step back) and when he meets your eyes there’s something sharp in their depths. He knows.

Slowly, with a smile that almost looks sad he slides down the wall and over the line at the same time and you do nothing to stop him.

He sinks to his knees, takes your belt into his hands, and you swallow your protests and close numb fingers around the soft leather of his hat. You’d never dare touch the thing in any other circumstances (‘ _nobody lays a hand on my baby but me_ ’, as Fate was fond of saying) but this was hardly ordinary and it’s barely hanging on anyway. He looks different without it, less mysterious, but you don’t get any more time to think about it because he’s touching you and with a look that burns like fire he takes you into his mouth.

_Fuck._

You brace yourself against the wall, screw your eyes shut, because the sight of Twisted Fate’s lips wrapped around your cock is an image you don’t know if you’ll ever be ready for. He runs his tongue along the underside, hums around you, and when your hips snap forward reflexively and you feel the back of his throat a small choking sound escapes him. Your eyes fly open and you pull back, milliseconds from an apology but Fate shakes his head once, closes his eyes, guides your hand to the back of his head. His hair feels like silk between calloused fingers as you slide your hand around and take a fistful.

If it hurts him, he hides it well. Perhaps you are being too rough, but then you’re almost too far gone to care; sliding his head back and forth along the shaft while he stares at you with blazing green eyes, mouth slack and _gods, so wet_ \--

There’s a thump on the stairs; no doubt some other drunk bastard struggling to find a bed and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of how exposed you are, how _utterly_ your better judgement has deserted you. Twisted Fate looks up, pupils blown, and nods his head towards the nearest door.

“You sure?”

Your voice is quiet, hoarse. Half an octave higher than it should be. Fate rolls his eyes, hollows his cheeks and sucks you somehow, impossibly deeper and when he swallows around your cock you aren’t proud of the sound you make. You’ll take that as a yes.

Yanking him up by the arm you very nearly throw him into the nearest room, and if you growl through your teeth when you do it it’s only because you’re upset by how easily he’s taking you apart--like you knew he would. The door slams. You lock it with shaking hands and when you turn back he has his coat halfway down his arms. The hat gets tossed onto the chair in the corner and your shirt joins Fate’s on the floor before his lips find yours. He pulls you towards the bed, one hand in your hair and the other at the front of his pants. They’re halfway off when the back of his knees hit the mattress and he pulls you onto him, smirks, rolls you over--

It’s going too fast. When you pictured this moment (as if it would ever happen--yet here you were) you thought you’d go slow, peel fabric from skin and drink in every inch with hands and tongue until he was writhing beneath you but Twisted Fate is barely giving you time to breathe, let alone look. He tosses your boots onto the floor, kicks his off too, and when he slips the pants all the way off thin legs he somehow manages to look graceful.

You want to say something, but before you can decide exactly what something that is he ducks down and takes you into his mouth again and your words rapidly disintegrate into gruff moans. _How did he get so good at that_? You don’t want to know that answer, and no it isn’t because you’re jealous because you aren’t (maybe a little) you just don’t want his mouth to ever stop doing what it was doing right this second.

“ _Fuck, Tobias_ \--”

You didn’t mean to say it, you knew how he felt about it, but he sucks hard, does something with his tongue that leaves you shuddering and the name just slips out. He straightens and for a single horrifying, agonizing second you think he’s going to stand up and walk out the door--

But all he does is straddle you. There is no anger in his eyes.

“See, that’s what I’ve been trying to get you to do,” he says, voice husky and quiet and lacking it’s usual arrogant drawl. His erection bobs as he sits up off of his heels, long and thin like the rest of him, and you want nothing more than to feel it between your lips but he spits into his hand, reaches back and--wasn’t it a little early or that? It may have been a while since you’d done this, longer than you care to admit, but even you know that these things required a bit more _preparation_. He must have seen the question on your face because Twisted Fate chuckles, shakes his head in gentle exasperation at your concern.

A protest is halfway past your lips but then he’s sinking down and your world is nothing but white hot and every curse word you know repeating in your brain until they sear the back of your eyes like a brand.  Dimly, you register the pinch of Fate’s fingernails leaving white half-moons on your chest and you’re holding his thighs and pouring every ounce of strength into not moving.

If you weren’t sober before you sure as hell are now.

He movies torturously slow; with every inch he lowers more and more bravado slips from his face until he’s a flushed, heaving mess of alternating pain and raw pleasure and you can’t look away; drinking him in like a man dying of thirst. Finally he bottoms out, lets his head fall back with a sigh and after a moment that feels decades long, he begins to move.

For all the earlier frantic passion leading up to this point the end result is far softer. You can’t muster up much movement with him sitting on your hips, which is all well and good because you’re already far too close. Twisted Fate closes a shaky hand around his cock, stroking it slowly and rolling his hips in time with your thrusts and fills the room with sugar-sweet breathless cries that make you feel like you’re drowning.  Light from the oil lamp on the bedside table throws each fold and line and stretch of skin into sharp contrast; illuminates the angles of Twisted Fate’s face as they contort in an ecstasy that is your doing-- _yours_.

 

You have seen many beautiful things, Malcolm Graves. None of them come close to this.

 

Your throat constricts. Suddenly it’s too much, too soft, makes you feel too many things you shouldn’t. You sit up, push him back. He goes willingly and you fall forward, slipping between his legs like you were made to fit there. He lies back, all long lines and sinew and curls his fist into the sheets and gods, it’s so much better than you imagined. Sleepless nights alone with just your hands for company fall flat at the real thing.  

A few strands of hair lie across Fate’s forehead, captured by a sheen of sweat, and you want to reach out and brush them back. You don’t trust your hands to be anything but gentle--but that’s not what this is, and so you keep them on his thighs; fingers gripping hard enough to bruise. For an instant you hope they do.

Pressure builds at the base of your spine. Behind your eyes. You’re cursing every time your hips meet his; sloppy and erratic. Fate’s breathing is ragged, his moaning in unison with your own. This is not how you wanted it to go.

It is perfect.

You choke out his name. Slip forward. When he opens his eyes, wrecked and panting, you swear in that moment they glow. You come with a shout and he follows seconds later and you bury your head in his neck; breathe him in, try to reconcile _first_ and _last_ in a way that doesn’t leave you gutted and hollow. You can’t.

 A minute passes and Fate shifts under you. Gingerly you pull out, ignoring the soft hiss of pain. You can’t meet his eyes--you’re scared of what you might see in them. You’re asleep the moment your head touches the pillow.

 

\---

 

When you wake, the bed is empty. Somehow you knew it would be, but it still smarts. You sit up, cradle your throbbing head, and manage not to expel the contents of your stomach--but it’s a close thing. Fate’s clothes are gone and yours are folded neatly on the chair and as you slip them on you can’t help but wonder how long he’d stayed--if he’d slept through the night like that or if he was halfway to a million miles from you.

He wasn’t. When you step into the landing, look down on the all but empty barroom beneath the stairs you see Twisted Fate alone at a table nursing a cup of coffee. The barmaid is a different girl now, blonde, and she barely looks up at you when you walk towards Fate like a man on his way to the gallows. The chair makes a noise that’s far too loud when you pull it out from the table.

“Mornin’” He says. There’s something in his tone you can’t quite place. You figure this could be done with a bit more grace but that has never been your strong suit so you blurt out the only thing in your mind; the question you’re not sure you want answered.

“How much do you remember?”

Twisted Fate looks at you, arches an elegant eyebrow. “Enough.” he says, and tips back the last of his coffee. His eyes never leave yours.

He stands and rolls his neck. “C’mon,” he says, “There’s a new casino opening tonight across town. Lot’s of high-rollers--VIP event. I can get us in if you’re up for round two.”

He's talking about a hit, you know he is, but you can’t help the flush that creeps up your neck. “Yeah,” you manage to grind out “hell yeah.”

If there’s something wicked in the corner of his smile, it’s just your imagination. “Well then we best get going, partner.”

 _Partner_. You can do that.

You smile back.

**Author's Note:**

> holy shit my first porn. idk whether to scream or vomit. There can never be enough graves/tf fic in this world so here's my shitty plot-less contribution. /throws it into the void.
> 
> Title is from a song called "Wasted" by Marian Hill. Listen to it--it's sexy.


End file.
